"I want the same thing from you that they do." His mouth clamped over hers as his entire body drove her flush to the wall. Anna Leigh welcomed the pressure of his mouth. One of her legs rose against his flanks. Her body rubbed his. The bodice of her gown was pushed lower and her breasts would have been exposed to the cool air if it weren't for the protection of Ryder's coarse woolen jacket. Friction radiated through her tender skin, hardening her nipples and sending charged currents of heat from her breasts to her thighs. She felt her gown being raised and realized he was going to take her out in the open, standing up, her back pressed to a wall of dried mud. If she hadn't been clutching his neck for support, her fingers threaded deeply in his thick, inky hair, she would have lifted the gown herself. Suddenly Ryder stopped his assault on her mouth, raised his head, and let her see the glimmer of a smile on his face. It had the warmth of a sliver of light on cold, hard steel.

"I'm as white as you are, Miss Hamilton," he whispered roughly.

"If you're looking for a scalp to hang in your bedroom, you'll have to look-"

Anna Leigh reared back and slapped him.

"Bastard."

"Wrong again," Ryder said pleasantly. He ignored the heat in his left cheek and made a gesture near his head, tipping an invisible hat to her. It was an absurdly mannerly touch given his behavior, and she did not miss the mockery in it or in his expression.

"They said you're a half-breed," she called after him as he turned to go. Her tone was accusing, as if she'd been betrayed--not by the ones who told her but by him. Ryder paused long enough to speak to her over his shoulder. Anna Leigh had managed to right her bodice and was smoothing what had been a carefully coifed hairstyle.

"If they told you that," he said, conveying something of his disbelief, "then it was because they were warning you away from me. Around here white women don't throw themselves at Indians or half-breeds."

Anna Leigh's eyes widened.

"What are you saying? Those bitches were trying to protect you? Save you for themselves?" Ryder almost laughed. He hadn't thought of it like that, but he supposed it could be true. The mothers didn't seem to know whether to be hopeful or fearful that he would turn his attention to one of their daughters.

"I figure they're hedgin' their bets until I make up my mind. Truth is, though, I'm spoken for."

"Spoken for?" she demanded crossly. Ryder didn't miss a beat.

"Florence Gardner."

The following morning Ryder reflected on the exchange between himself and Anna Leigh Hamilton as the company was preparing to depart. She hadn't been able to respond to his parting shot for almost a full minute, but made up for it later with a foul harangue that would have made the coarsest whore sit up and take notice.

She was looking very demure this morning, he observed as Corporal Harding gave her a leg up on her mount. She handled the unfamiliar mare expertly, calming her quickly and demonstrating at the outset who was in charge. Ryder had never had any doubt that she could handle a horse. His objection to her joining the expedition had nothing to do with her riding ability and everything to do with the element of danger. Anna Leigh had a sweet, saucy smile for each of the sixty men accompanying the wagons, from the lowliest driver to the troop leader, First Lieutenant Spencer Matheson. It was calculated to brighten their day, make them forget the miserable heat, and encourage them to remember how she had looked the night before in her jade satin ball gown. Ryder McKay was not a recipient of that smile. For the troop scout, Anna Leigh reserved a look that was haughty and superior, a pointed reminder that in spite of his attempt to humiliate her, she had still won an important battle. He could not have his way in all things. Ryder dismissed the look she cast in his direction by simply ignoring it.

He had more important things on his mind than Anna Leigh's petty retributions. He didn't understand or agree with her father's decision to allow her to accompany the wagons. Senator Warren Hamilton had explained it to him, of course, but to Ryder's way of thinking it didn't make sense. It didn't matter to Ryder that the senator had already made a promise to his daughter, or that he thought Ryder was exaggerating the danger; as far as Ryder was concerned, any danger at all presented too great a risk. As soon as he realized the argument was lost, Ryder lodged a personal protest with the fort's commander.

General Gardner listened, made his own attempt to dissuade the senator, and was met with the same stiff resistance. Finally the general had no choice but to order Ryder to take her along.

"It's his business," he said.

"And you're not the one in command."

"I haven't forgotten my place," Ryder said.

"But I'm the one charged with the safety of this expedition and I don't like it. She doesn't belong." General Gardner had held up his hand in a weary but firm gesture. The subject was closed and Ryder McKay was dismissed. When First Lieutenant Matheson moved his company out, Ryder stopped thinking about Anna Leigh and her powerful, but ill-advised, father; and concentrated on his assignment. As an Army scout Ryder held no formal rank. His pay amounted to a little more than a captain's salary because his skills were in great demand. He carried a map of most of the great Southwest in his head. On long expeditions through rocky canyons or scrub desert, Ryder proved he could find water, forage for food in the brush, or hunt game if called upon to do so. He did not expect to be asked to fill any of those roles this time. The troop was escorting four wagons to the rail line at Colter Pass southwest of Fort Union. They would be met by the patrol that had been stationed there for the previous month.

Matheson's troop would stay, spread out along the rails; and the relieved patrol would return to the fort for a well-deserved rest.

To all appearances the journey was business as usual. The wagons carried supplies for the new patrol, enough to last at least two months in the event there was a problem relieving the men. The greased axle wheels still groaned under the heavy burden of the foodstuffs. If ever there was a soldier who thought the Army's biscuits could substitute for cannon fodder in a pinch, here was proof; for the wagons scored the ground with their weight. They carried kegs of fresh water, tins of coffee, canned peaches, corn, tomatoes, and milk. Jerky and rice and dried beans filled large burlap sacks. Sweets would be provided by molasses and raisins.

Flour and salt were staples, but butter in the field was made from a combination of bacon grease, flour, and water and had the consistency of gravy. A clay crock held sourdough starter for fresh biscuits that would be a touch lighter than the ones they were traveling with. The men going to take their turn at patrolling the rail line looked wistful when they had their last glimpse of the fort. Few of them were thinking of wives or sweethearts. Almost to a man they were thinking of their stomachs.

Ryder had no difficulty outdistancing the first lieutenant's men.

His job could never be done beside the men in his safekeeping.

Sometimes he worked with a partner, one of the other scouts for whom there was mutual respect if not friendship, but most often he worked alone by his own choice. The route to Colter Canyon was not unfamiliar to any but the greenest of the recruits. Ryder wasn't along to blaze a trail. He had one purpose, to find Apache. Many of the Apache tribes that populated the Southwest Territory had been rounded up by the Army and forced to take up residence on government reservations. In spite of that there were still renegade bands that struck hard and fled fast, causing damage to themselves and the settlers alike. Ryder thought of them as resistance fighters, men who thought their way of life, their beliefs, and their families were all worth saving. It was not a popular view, and because of who Ryder McKay was, and because of how he was raised, to state his thoughts aloud would have brought suspicion on his head. He was well aware that no matter how he proved himself he was always going to be regarded with a certain lack of trust. Walker Caine was an exception to that rule. So was General Thorn at West Point. In the Southwest he counted two men who had shown themselves to be in the same vein. One was General Mitchell Halstead, recently retired from his thirty-year career with the Army, and living in Flagstaff. The other was Naiche, a Chiricahua warrior and blood brother to Geronimo, both of whom were still at large. Ryder did not expect trouble on the journey, but he had to anticipate it. The foodstuffs they carried were especially appealing to Chiricahua raiders who would be looking to feed themselves and their families. Ryder watched the ground closely. Displaced rocks were clues of someone passing on the land in front of him. He knew how to determine how many were in a raiding party, if they walked or were on horseback, how fast they were traveling, and if there were women and children bringing up the rear. Nothing he saw indicated the Chiricahua were on the trail of the wagons or the company's horseflesh. Ryder circled around and back, covering the company's left flank and rear. He waited on the high ground among the red rocks for Matheson's men to catch up to him. Along the length of a nearby wash was a low-growing, spreading mesquite tree.

Saguaro cacti spotted the desert floor; bristling guards for the unwary traveler. A tiny elf owl, no bigger than a finch, had taken up residence in one of the thick arms of a cactus, his home compliments of a woodpecker who had deserted the hole. Ryder felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. He did not try to dismiss the feeling. It was more important to accept it and understand what it might mean. In the distance he could hear the approach of the company, the shuffled cadence of men and horses, the creaking rhythm of wagons on the hard, dry earth. Ryder could not see the column as they wended their way through the canyon, but he followed the fine cloud of dust that rose high in the air above them like a morning mist. By the time they reached him he had formulated a plan.

Chapter Three.

First Lieutenant Matheson listened gravely to Ryder's concerns.

Matheson was a graduate of West Point and a veteran of two Western campaigns. He had been a quick study in the classroom and in the field, and it was generally agreed he was a young man with a future in the Army. One of the things he had learned was to trust his scout.

This time Ryder was making that difficult to do.

"Tell me again about this premonition," he said impatiently. The heat was battering them all in spite of the fact that it was not yet eight o'clock. He lifted his hat momentarily and wiped his brow. The Army issued the same navy blue wool sack coat, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers to soldiers from the Northern Plains to the Southwest. The clothing was as ill suited for the bitter cold of Montana as it was for the unrelenting heat of the Southwest Territory. There was leeway given to men in the field, especially among the privates. First Lieutenant Matheson was expected to adhere to regulation dress. Now he was baking in it.

"What signs have you seen?" Ryder was honest.

"None. There's danger anyway." Matheson swore softly.

"Jesus, McKay. What the hell are we supposed to do about that?"

"How many of your men are new recruits?"

"Half, maybe a little more." Ryder didn't like those odds. He had trusted the makeup of the company to others and now he wished he hadn't. These men weren't seasoned to fight well in an ambush.

"Split the company in two," he said.

"Two wagons for each group. Divide the greenhorns in half, they'll need help if it comes to a hand-to-hand fight. You lead half through the canyon.

Sergeant Shipley can take half on the longer route around."

Matheson wasn't certain he liked it. Splitting a fighting force, especially one as small as a company, was always risky. To do it all because Ryder McKay had a "feeling" could cost him the lives of his men and a promotion. He looked around at his troop.

"What about her?" he asked, his chin jutting in the direction of Anna Leigh Hamilton. She was sweet-talking Corporal Harding into giving her a drink from his canteen. An unconscionable flirt, he thought, since she was carrying her own canteen. Matheson sighed and returned his full attention to Ryder.

"For two cents I'd send her back to--"

"I'd do it for a penny," Ryder offered.

"But for right now it'd be better if she stayed with you." Matheson shook his head. He rubbed his chin with the back of his gloved hand.

"She's safer with you. You'll be out ahead of the rest of us. If there's an ambush you'll have warning before we will."

Ryder didn't repeat that there was no one out there. He saw that the first lieutenant was having a difficult time accepting the reality of impending danger. To remind him that there were no signs on the trail ahead would not support Ryder's own case. The sensation that prickled his skin earlier had not left him since.

"I'll take her," he said at last, weighing his options.

"I won't be able to move as fast, but I'll take her." Matheson nodded.

"I.